by Rachel Caine
“A demon wearing my grandfather’s skin which says horrifying things to me in a beautiful voice, such as ‘oh, you’re pregnant—it’s a boy, how lovely. Babies taste so good, or so I’ve heard.’ Not to mention one entirely capable of biding its time, fashioning an escape plan and just waiting, as such things can, until I’m too old to do anything about it.”
Said without rancour, so far as Dee could tell. This swank old lady had killed a thousand similar monsters in her time, probably—more than she and Sami’d ever seen—but when it came to emotional weaknesses, everybody had their something; if she wanted to contract hers out, Dee could certainly relate. No different from any other job, long as the money was good.
“We’re still wanted,” Sami reminded her. “Sticking around in the States wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Oh, no doubt. But you’ll need new identities, won’t you, to cross the border into Canada? Unless you’re planning on using magic, that is—and that does leave a trail.”
“Not one the FBI can follow, far as I know.”
“Ah, yes. But what of Miss Chatwin, your former partner in escape?” Here Ruhel had tapped the second file, lightly. “Turns out, there’s a fair deal of historical linkage between her family and yours, above and beyond the sad fact of both your mothers having decided to initiate, ahem, intimate contact with the same member of the Goetic Coterie—”
“Careful,” Dee said.
“I’m always careful, Miss Cornish; so should you be. Especially since I know you both know that Allfair Chatwin remains fixated on her half-sister, for… various reasons, all of them toxic. A dangerous woman.”
Dee shrugged, reluctant to state the obvious. But it was Sami who answered, anyways.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t think we have any problem with hunting your grandfather down, per se. But what is it you want us to do with him, exactly, once we find him?”
“So she give you a phone too, huh?” Chatwin shook her head, grinning. “Can’t say they ain’t a canny lot, them Maartensbecks. Particularly like her usin’ me as a threat, too, to light a fire under your asses.”
Dee snorted. “‘Threat,’ Jesus. Annoyance, maybe… ”
“Now, now, Lady Di. No need t’be insultin’.”
“Just shush it, both of you,” Sami broke in. Then asked, of Chatwin, “So who’d you talk to? Ruhel again?”
“Naw, they sent me a pretty little brown gal in undercover cop slacks and a Kevlar neckerpiece, tough as nails. Said her name was Anapurna Maartensbeck, so I’m thinkin’ she’s probably this generation’s granddaughter, but she didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout her great-great-great… whatever. Just how there’d been a break-in at the vault, some big black books took, an’ now they needed somebody t’get ‘em back, an interested third party knew enough of what magic smells like t’sniff ‘em out.”
“They sent you after books.” Dee shook her head. “The fuck.”
“Funny, that’s what I thought; them books weren’t the only things stunk, by a long shot. Most ‘specially so ’cause when I did track ‘em down, they turned out t’be mainly no great shakes—I mean, sure, I guess if you never seen a grimoire in your life, you might get all het up. But really: Agrippa, Paracelsus? The Petit Albert? They’re the Time-Life series of black magic—ten a penny, find a copy any damn place. Hardly worth the lockin’ up, ‘sides from this… ”
Bitch meant what she had under her arm, of course—that squat, thick tome, more folio than book at closer examination, ill-bound in sticky-pale leather. She flourished it forth at Sami with a little half-bow, running her thumb along the embossed title, which Sami read out loud.“Of The True Hierarchy of Hell, or Pseudomonarchia Daemonium, blah blah blah. Greatest Magical Hits bullshit, like you said.”
“Uh huh. Now flip it open.”
Sami did, gingerly. And Dee watched Chatwin grin even wider, so much so it was like the top of her skull was in danger of falling off, as her—their, shit on it all—half-sister’s eyes widened, when she saw what was written inside.
“Clavicule des Pas-Morts,” she said, amazed. “This is… this was burnt. Wasn’t it?”
“Oh, more’n once, from what I heard. Then again, those might’ve just been rumours put ‘round by whoever had it at the time, to throw everybody else lookin’ for it off the scent. ’cause once you got a copy of this bad boy, you probably want to keep it just as long as possible, don’t ya think?”
Dee looked at Sami, the resident expert. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because whoever has the Key of the Not-Dead can cure vampirism,” Sami replied, eyes still firmly riveted to the thing in question. With a slight tip of her head towards Chatwin, she asked, “How’d you find it?”
Chatwin shrugged. “Easy enough. Miss Anapurna give me a box of forensic samples, said they took ‘em at the crime-scene—I whipped up a trackin’ spell, but didn’t get more’n one trail and that gone cold hours back, ’cause it looked like the old boy who made it was already dead. Odd thing was, though… ”
“He was still moving?”
“Mmm. Just like old Professor Maks, I’d bet—or like that gal he left behind here would’ve been, you hadn’t performed an emergency head-ectomy.”
“So you figure out he’s a vampire, kill him, grab the book…and? Maartensbecks are the ones who lied to you, why aren’t you takin’ it up with them? How’d you even know where to find us?”
“Aw, now you’re drainin’ all the fun out of it.” Chatwin waited for Dee to rise to the bait, then sighed when she didn’t. “Well—as it ensues, Princess here was always gonna be my next stop already, but let’s lay that by, for the nonce. Given Mister Book-Snatcher didn’t look like he’d been undead too long, I decided t’use his blood and see how near the one’d turned him was, just in case it decided to come lookin’; that’s what brought me this-a-way, though I guess I’m runnin’ a bit late in terms of catchin’ up with the head monster-maker himself. Imagine my surprise, though, when I snuck up t’peek through the diner window and saw the two of you standin’ there, all large as life, ‘bout to cut yourself some fresh new vampire’s throat!”
“Like Christmas,” Sami agreed. “Or Hallowe’en.”
“Six of one, darlin’. And now… here we are.”
A pause. Sami looked away, tapping two fingers against her lips and cogitating so furiously Dee could almost smell the gray cells burning. Chatwin took advantage of her distraction to run a frankly admiring look up and down Sami’s frame that made Dee long to knock her into the middle of next week, thinking, Eyes front, bitch. I got a cold iron knuckle-duster in one pocket and a shaker full of salt in the other, both with your name written allll over ‘em.
“Okay,” Sami said out loud, interrupting Dee’s reverie. “Professor Maks is a vampire, been one since 1971, and Ruhel still seems pretty cut up about it—so if they have the Clavicule, why don’t they use it? ’cause… ”
“’cause—they didn’t know they had it,” Dee answered, slowly. “Not until it was already banked. Only thing that makes sense.”
“Yeah. They take the cover at face value, then find out they were wrong. But by that time, it’s already inside the vault, with not-Professor Maks guarding it.”
A-Cat frowned. “Just a second of enlightenment here, ladies, for all those who ain’t in the biz…wouldn’t havin’ a vampire squattin’ over your stuff put a kibosh on the Maartensbecks’ whole magic item-loanin’ sideline?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure they could negotiate with him to get him to send things out, considering how dependent on them he’d be,” Sami replied. Give him extra blood, maybe even donate their own… but they certainly wouldn’t tell him about the Clavicule, because he’d know what they wanted it for.”
“Granted,” Dee agreed. “So—how they did want to get it back out?”
“Arrange a break-in. It’s pretty much the only way.”
Dee frowned. “They must’ve known he’d get out, though.”
A raucous
snort, from over Chatwin’s way. “Known? Lady Di, I’ll stake my box they was bettin’ on it.”
They both turned to look at Chatwin, who nodded, almost to herself. Then added, for clarification, “Yeah, just before I told that old boy to put the book down and step back, I recall he was goin’ on about how he didn’t understand why ‘the money people’ hadn’t shown up yet. In fact, I think he kinda thought I was one of those people.”
“Why’d you want him to step back?” Dee asked.
“Oh, that was so’s none of him’d get on the book when I opened the door t’let the sun in, basically. ’cause one way or another, I knew I was gonna need it, later on.”
That smile again. Sami looked anywhere but, while Dee met it straight on, glaring extra-hard. You’re gonna get yours, Chatwin, and sooner than you think. That’s if I got anything to say about it.
Would she, though? This was starting to be the baseline problem, whenever Sami and Chatwin got in close proximity. There was no denying the witch could be useful, in her way, but Christ.
She’s evil, Sami, Dee tried to signal her sister. And you, no matter what happened, ‘fore you had me help you cut those binding tattoos into your skin—you’re not. Don’t matter how much blood you share; you and me must share the same amount, right? And human trumps demon, or should…
But it wasn’t like Sami could hear her, anyways. At least—
(—she didn’t think so.)
Chatwin was leaning forward now, hand raised tentatively, like she actually thought she was going to try and lay it on Sami’s shoulder in mock-sympathy, or some such shit. If she did, Dee thought, it was more than likely she—Dee—would respond to that unbearable provocation by leaning forward herself, and stick her vamp-killin’ blade so far through the part of Chatwin’s wrist that didn’t connect with Sami’s flesh she might succeed in severing both bones at one chunk.
Luckily for everyone concerned, however, it didn’t prove necessary, after all.
“We need to get to Professor Maks first,” Sami said. “Then hold him, ’til his relatives show up. After which we can discuss all the people they’ve let him kill so far just to get a chance at turning him back, not to mention whether or not we were supposed to be three of them.”
Dee sighed. “There go the spankin’ new IDs.”
Chatwin laughed at that, heartily. “Oh, Lady Di,” she said, “that’s precious. You should’a heard what they promised me, to get me t’deal myself in.”
No I shouldn’t, Dee thought.
Dee left the magic shit to Sami and Chatwin, just like last time, when they’d ended up using a spell called the Sator Box and a scrap of dead girl’s soul stuffed in an aspirin bottle to bust themselves out of M-vale. Just sat there and listened to them hash out how to use blood from two of old Prof. Maartensbeck’s spawn and that goddamn book a whole bunch of people who’d never heard of him had all paid so much for to locate where he was right now, then drag them towards it, like iron filings to some tainted magnet. She was trying to remember everything Jeptha and Moriam had ever told her about vampires, which wasn’t much, aside from don’t get within grabbing range but only thing really works for sure is the head comin’ off, so…
(And here she had a clearish image of Jeptha shrugging, somewhat baffled by his own contradiction. Shooting Moriam a smile as he did and seeing it returned, softly, yet with interest.)
Thinking, They did love each other, once. Just like Sami and me. That’s the fucking pity of it.
Then remembering a little further on, the last time she’d seen him, after the date’d finally been set and all his appeals wrung out. Sitting there across from a man she barely recognized anymore, listening to him rant about how if she ever found out where her little sister was he was counting on her to finish the damn job, this time, sentiment aside. You hear me, Dionne? To which she’d just shook her head and answered no, on no account, no fucking way—you hear me, Dad? Just goddamn NO.
They’d sat there a minute, glaring at each other with the same fierce eyes. Because she’s my sister, and I love her, no matter what. You do remember how that goes, right? Family is family, that’s what you always said… up ’til the night you decided it wasn’t, anymore.
Think I didn’t love your Mama, Dee? he’d answered, finally. I did. Still do. But—
—sometimes, that didn’t mean as much as it should, in context. Sometimes it couldn’t. Not when civilians were involved. And she knew that, too.
Britishisms aside, the Maartensbecks had to “understand” it just as well, if anybody did.
(Civilians like Jesca Lind? that voice at the back of Dee’s mind asked her, though, its tone also Jeptha’s, as it often was. Not that that likeness was ever enough to keep her from ignoring it.)
I made my choice, Dee thought, giving her machete a last quick, sharpening scrape. And tuned back into the conversation still going on to her right, even while stowing the whetstone away in one of her jacket pockets.
“Now, you got to keep a tight hold, this time, Princess,” Chatwin was warning Sami. “Don’t wanna go spinnin’ off all unexpected-like, not given the forces we’re playin’ with, here… ”
“You just make sure we all arrive together—me, you and Dee,” Sami replied. “Because if I come out of fugue and find her gone again, first thing I’m gonna do is put a thrice-blessed iron cross-nail right through your Third Eye.”
“Witch’s lobotomy? Perish the thought.”
Dee stood up, tucking the machete out of sight. “All that mean we’re good to go, or what?” she demanded, eyes firmly on Sami, who sighed. Replying, as she did—
“Good as we’ll ever be, I guess.”
Things contracted, then there was some old-fashioned Appalachian hair-knotting and a bit of hemoglobin fingerpaint action, followed by a three-way handfasting and widdershins footwork on three, two, one. Seconds later, with a pitch-black spacetime rip through a wormhole where only Sami’s lit-up tats showed the way, they stumbled like one clumsy, six-legged animal into the parking lot in front of one of those weird new airport motels with the courtyard inside the building, six stories of glass-fronted apartments looking only inward, where a sunken fountain-pool combo and some scattered built-in couches lurked.
Those apartments were all vacant now, though not exactly empty, their redly hand-printed vistas giving only the impression of drawn blinds, or maybe a fall of particularly virulent-colored cherry blossoms. While down in the pit sat Professor Maks Maartensbeck, leant back in the now deep-dyed fountain’s bowl with his equally-scarlet eyes half-shut and his long legs delicately crossed at the ankles, frankly luxuriating, dyed head to toe in unlucky moteliers’ blood.
He’d swapped his Twister Relief dumpster outfit for what looked like the remains of a security guard’s uniform, along the way. Still slightly too big for him, but a far better overall impression.
“Well, ladies,” he called up to them as they stood rooted in the doorway, ridiculously polite voice anti-naturally resonant, some distant silver key dragged over ice. “Two witches, both demon-blooded, both by the same sire—and one full human, by the same dam; hmmm, let me see. The fabled Dionne and Samaire Cornish, I presume, here to chastise me for my many sins… but who, pray tell, are you?”
Chatwin shrugged, then sidled in crosswise and sauntering, though Dee could tell even her hackles were up, under that don’t-care prison swag show. Calling down, “Allfair Chatwin’s my name, sir, thanks for askin’. But you can feel free t’call me A-Cat, you find yourself so inclined.”
“Ah, yes. Descended from the fabled demoiselles de Chatouye, I’d wager, whose village was burnt by none other than these two’s equal-distant genetic author, Witchfinder Cornîche. Voulteuses of great power, all, as I’m sure you must be yourself, to find me so quickly… especially once one takes into account your—other connections.”
“Too kind, Professor. Just a humble holler-worker out of Black Bush, that’s all.”
“Oh, hardly.”
They’re fast
, too, Moriam’d said, that long-ago night, so don’t forget it—and holy shit was that ever true, what with all that fresh Type Whatever jacking up Maartensbeck’s system. Because all it took was a blur of movement, a single tiny eyelid-flick, and there he was, right up in all three of their faces at once and smiling horribly, a highly-educated human shark with blood-breath sporting a manicure that—now you saw it close on—read halfway between Fu Manchu and full-on ten-fingered raptor.
“You see, modesty truly does ill-become creatures such as we, my dear,” he told Chatwin, who stood there frozen for once, while Sami and Dee both shifted a half-step back into automatic attack-stance. “Why quibble terminology? Be proud, whatever you choose to call yourself.”
Chatwin breathed out, visibly smoothing her face back into its usual smarm-charm lines. “No argument from me, on that one,” she replied, lightly. “In fact, you’ll find monster pride’s pretty much my middle name, under most circumstances… unlike some I could mention.”
He smiled, gore-mask crinkling. “Well, then. Since you’ve mentioned her—” Switching over, he said to Sami, “What a very decorative object you’ve made of yourself, Miss Cornish, to be sure. Can those be binding sigils? In Crossing the River, no less?” She nodded. “One would think they’d make it rather more difficult to summon your power, even when faced with imminent threat. And yet one can only assume you thought that a desirable outcome, when you carved yourself all over with them.”
Dry: “Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“Less people get hurt, this way.”
Dee saw one stained yet elegant eyebrow tic up in disbelief. “Ah yes,” the Professor replied, with fine contempt. “Morality.”
“Kinda heard you had a thing for that, back in the day,” Dee couldn’t quite keep herself from snapping, though she knew it’d turn him her way—but hell, she was ass-tired of things like this supercilious old fuck always talking around her, just ’cause her Daddy wasn’t the one with horns. So when Maartensbeck’s blood-charged gaze met hers, she just smiled: not as sharp as him, but sharp enough. Only to be more surprised than she’d expected to be when, a moment later, he did the same.
